The doctors suggested it was because of the Hurricane.
They said that ptsd, trauma, and anxiety could explain what was happening to him. They said that it would be fine if he just got over it. They said that the storm that caused his condition was gone.
And maybe it was. Maybe everything they said was true. But Alexander isn't too sure about that. It wasn't like there was a specific point in his time where this started happening. He's just always been this way. When he had a therapist, he said it would go away by the time he was an adult. But he was nineteen now, on a boat headed to the mainland; and he found himself in the same space that he always did when he was stressed or anxious or scared.
His mouth felt like cotton, his throat slightly burned; he tried to keep his breathing even, but he wasn't sure how. The shore was getting closer as the boat was approaching, Hamilton watched the dark waves lap against the ship to keep himself from clearing his throat.
Later, people will tell stories of him. How Alexander Hamilton jumped off that boat, mouth running before he even stepped foot on the colony's soil. They'd say how he talked his way into America. How his voice was heard all the way from Boston to Atlanta. How he had a tongue that never stopped.
Well, the reality is messier and richer, kids. When he stepped off the ship, he didn't say a word. When he handed the inspectors his paperwork, he didn't say a word. And when he hailed down a taxi, he didn't say a single word.
Ironically, the first words he said in America were spoken almost two weeks after he came to the new land. He was in New York City, when he happened to see a face that he'd read up on for many years.
"Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?" He asked, tapping on the man's shoulder. It wasn't unusual for him to not use his voice for so long. Sometimes he just didn't need it. Sometimes he didn't want it.
"That depends, who's asking?" The man replied, raising an eyebrow. Alexander almost felt his throat tighten, but he stood his ground, forcing the words out.
"Oh, sure, sir." He sounded nervous, but he'd take that over not making a sound at all. "I'm Alexander Hamilton; I'm at your service, sir. I have been looking for you."
"I'm getting nervous." Aaron said with a laugh and a weight was lifted off Alexander's shoulders. His throat loosened, along with his lips and the words flowed as if he never had a problem with them to begin with.
"Sir, I heard your name at Princeton; I was seeking an accelerated course of study…"
He had Burr laughing at him good naturedly within five minutes. He offered him a drink and some advice. "Talk less."
Alexander almost tripped over his own foot. His tongue did a backflip against his uvula. "W-what?"
"Smile more." Burr shot him a pleasant grin. "Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for."
Hamilton was still stuck on the 'talk less' part. He was blinking rapidly, his heart pounding and a distinct pain in his chest as the words echoed around his mind. Talk less. Talk less! His mouth felt like cotton when he whispered, "You can't be serious..."
"Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead."
Hamilton found himself standing in the doorway of the bar as Burr walked on, unaware of how much those words truly rattled him. He forced his feet to move, even as his mind was still repeating Burr's words to him.
Burr intended up introducing him to the three men who would soon become his closest friends; John Laurens, Gilbert Lafayette, and Hercules Mulligan. For a long time, all four of the men he met that day thought Hamilton was the most loudmouthed man they'd ever meet.
It would take them a war to find out the truth.
The destructive, explosive sounds of the cannons shooting at them from just off the shore made Hamilton flinch. With each 'BOOM' more of the colonial troops dropped their weapons and sprinted away. Alexander stayed close to Hercules, looking out at the battle that was raging in the streets he called home. He could see his general, a man by the name of George Washington, riding on a hoarse, shouting orders to keep their grounds; they can't give up Brooklyn just yet.
"Shit." Herc mutters as he ducks behind a corner. "Any bright ideas?"
Alexander has one. But his mouth chose that moment to stop working. He stared, wide-eyed up at Hercules, desperately trying to figure out how to say what he has to say.
"Alex?" When he didn't get a response, he turned to look at his friend. Immediately, he lowered his gun. "Hey, whoa, what's wrong?"
'You mean other than the fighting?' He wants to say.
'Nothing, I have a plan.' He wants to add.
'We have to stop them.' He wants to suggest.
'If they didn't have their cannons they wouldn't be shit.' He wants to complain.
Nothing comes out. Not even a whine. Hamilton's hands are shaking, he knows that, but he can't stop himself. His gaze darts from one of Herc's eyes to the other, trying to latch onto something there.
"Man, are you okay?" Hercules asks. They both jump when another cannon goes off near them. Herc looks back from their hiding spot, bouncing on his feet. "Okay, okay, nows not the time for freaking out, Alex. We gotta do something, quick."
Alex forces himself to swallow hard. He clears his throat and drags the words out of his vocal chords. They tear his esophagus as they come up. They feel heavy on his tongue. They make his stomach feel cold and his mind tired. But it gets Herc to smile a wide, almost manic grin, when he hears them.
"Let's steal their cannons." It's barely a whisper, his voice raw, but it's heard, and that's all that matters..
Once they figure out the how, Herc gestures for him to lead the way. Hamilton already feels exhausted just from saying those fours words, but he grins at his friend and charges into battle.
Hours later, when Hamilton and Hercules are reunited with Lafayette and Laurens, Alex is able to find his voice again with much more ease.
"Man, you should've heard him. This crazy idiot was like, 'Let's steal their cannons'!" Hercules was mildly drunk and roaring up a storm. He made the small squeak Hamilton said sound more like a mighty roar. Alexander silently thanked him for that.
The others laughed at him as Hamilton retorted, "You're the crazy idiot that went along with it."
The friends share their experiences in the last battle as if it were a tense sports game. They make light of what they just went through, and even though the other soldiers at other tables scoffed at them, Hamilton appreciates the atmosphere it creates. He wouldn't be sure he could speak if their topic weighed any heavier on his lips.
"Alexander Hamilton?" A man that Hamilton doesn't recognize came up to their table, "The general would like to see you. Now."
The table grew silent. Alexander exchanged glances with his friends, his felt a thick bubble forming at the back of his throat. Slowly, silently, he nodded and headed outside to find his generals' tent.
During the walk there, Hamilton cleared his throat multiple times. He shook his hands and brushed his fingers through his hair. He could do this, he could do this, he could do this. He could speak to his general. It's just George Fucking Washington. Not like he's the greatest man on this side of the sea or anything. It'll be okay. He hopes.
Standing outside, Alexander cleared his throat one last time, trying to pop that bubble. Then he took a deep breath and stepped into the tent. To his surprise, Aaron Burr was standing there, addressing their superior.
"Your excellency, you wanted to see me?" He said them too loud, dammit. The words hung in the air, thick and threatening. He wished he didn't do anything wrong; if the general wants him in here, then he must've done something wrong. And of course he would have to defend himself. Verbally. He wanted to groan but even that seemed to much difficult.
"Hamilton, come in, have you met Burr?" Washington gestures to the other man with ease and grace.
"...Yes, sir." The words sound a bit shaky, even to himself.
"We keep meeting." Burr explained, almost bitterly.
When Washington dismisses Burr, Hamilton's tension rises even higher. If he did something so bad that the general doesn't want other soldiers to know about it then he must be screwed. He's sure he did something wrong. It wouldn't surprise him. Hamilton has always been a bit… unorthodox. There's a tense moment where no one says anything. Hamilton tries to remain calm, but his nerves are shot and he can't help but think the same thing over and over.
'What did I do?'
'What did I do?'
'Sir, what did I do?'
'Say it, it's not hard, come on, say it!'
'What did I do?!'
"Have I done something wrong, sir?" His voice is quiet. He knows this by the way Washington give him a look of confused surprise. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid-
"On the contrary, I called you here because our odds are beyond scary." Washington's voice is deep and calm. Alexander wishes he could be like that, just once. Washington continues to explain their situation, and the more the general talks, the more relaxed Hamilton feels. Focused, clear. He responds with less and less difficulty when he has something to focus on. And soon he has no trouble at all; talking it up with the greatest general these colonies have as if he was Laurens or Hercules. They never had trouble with their words.
At the end of their meeting, Washington walks past him, patting him on the shoulder as he does so, "You have a great mind, son. I'm going to need that."
Alexander was so pleased, he had nothing to say.
Eliza was confused when she first discovered it. They had been together for a few weeks now. Against his requests, she came down to 'slum in the city' with him every chance she got. When she knocked on Alexander's door one day, Hamilton was already dreading the not-conversation that would follow. Regardless, he wouldn't ignore her.
He enthusiastically flung his door open, grinning at her. Eliza laughed and swatted him with a small bouquet of flowers. Taking them from her, he frowned.
"I saw them on my way here, and I thought you'd like them." Eliza said, shrugging as she stepped inside. "Angelica was going on and on about how 'boys should get flowers, too' or something, the other day, so it was on my mind, I guess."
Alexander smiled softly at his girlfriend as she stripped her coat and continued chatting easily. "I felt a bit silly, but they're just flowers, right? I suppose everyone needs something pretty in their homes."
She paused at that, suddenly realizing something. Alexander flinched before she even turned around. "Alexander… are you okay?"
There was concern in her eyes, the kind that made Alex's stomach twist. He quickly nodded, grinning at her and stepping forward to take her hand. He kissed her knuckles and smiled softly at her.
"Are you sick?" Eliza asked, her tone pure puzzlement. Alex stepped away to find a vase for him to put the flowers in. When he couldn't find any, he just used a cup of water. Smiling proudly down at his new centerpiece, he shook his head at Eliza's question.
His girlfriend only grew more confused. "Is this a dare with the boys?"
Alexander huffed out a breath of a laugh, but even that was silent. His eyes were sparkling as he shook his head again.
"...Is it me?" She almost whispered, taking a step back. Immediately Alexander scrambled up to her, his eyes wide. He shook his head and hands furiously, his lips twitching to mouth the word 'No!'. She relaxed, but just slightly, "Then, why aren't you talking?"
'Oh boy.' Hamilton thought. He blew out a long breath, looking down at his hands, 'That's a loaded question.'
Hamilton clenched and unclenched his hands; flicking his gaze up to the white ceiling. He bit his lip, trying to figure out how to say what he can't say. To his surprise, Eliza waved it off.
"Actually, nevermind. You don't have to explain right now. Just, is it something I can fix?" She asked, sounding hopeful. Hamilton gave her an appreciative smile, but shook his head no. She sighed, but didn't prod any further about it. "Okay, well, I know you have to leave to see General Washington tomorrow. What do you want to do until then?"
Alex paused and then pointed to his small kitchen hopefully. Eliza smiled, nodding, "Okay, okay. Got anything for a pie? We can have tea with it later."
Washington practically threw him into his tent. Hamilton stumbled and slid against the ground, his heart pounding in his ears.
"Son," Washington started.
Alexander sat on the floor; on his knees, his hands in his lap, his head bowed. His lip danced between his teeth. The bubble in his throat was filled with ink. Hamilton flinched. 'Don't call me son.'
"This war is hard enough without infighting." Washington was pacing, his lecture and the scuff of his boots the only sounds in the small room. "It solves nothing and you aggravate our allies to the south. Son,"
'I'm not your son.'
"I am not a maiden in need of defending. You can't just shoot your problems into ending. I know these men speak to diminish me, but I can handle it. My name has been through a lot." Washington pauses then, he looks down at Hamilton, who hadn't said a single word since Washington found him in the battleground. Alexander still sat, like stone, on the floor; only his twitching expression proving that he was listening. His anger faded, just slightly, into concern. He'd never seen his second-in-command look so fragile. "Son-"
The bubble popped.
"CALL ME SON ONE MORE TIME!" His voice cracked as he shouted it. His shoulders shook and his throat started filling with the ink from the bubble he was trying so hard not to pop. Slowly, he lifted his head up to look at his commander.
Shock and a twinge of hurt fought in Washington's eyes. They kept eye contact as Washington closed his agape mouth, straightened his shoulders and said with finality, "Go home, Alexander."
Alex stumbled to his feet, he knew he couldn't form any sort of argument, but he still tried. His hand reached forward, slightly. Washington jerked out of his reach.
"That's an order from your commander. Go home."
Silently, Alex staggered away from his general. He never spoke the words needed to defend Laurens or himself.
John discovers when they're working together, writing essays to convince people to see substantial the moral and ethical issues with keeping humans as slaves. They'd been quiet for a long time now, both of them absorbed in their work.
Laurens sitting on the table, his hand in Hamilton's hair as he reads responses to their previously published issues. Hamilton sits properly in a chair, jesus John, this isn't a playground. He's scribbling furiously on his parchment. Laurens makes a 'tut' noise; the first verbal sound either of them made in hours, as he passes the paper to Hamilton.
"Get a load of this garbage." Laurens said, gesturing to the line he just read, "You wouldn't understand, we need our slaves to feed our people!' Did they not realize how cannibalistic that sounds?"
Laurens laughs at his own joke. Hamilton offers a wary smile as he skims through the rest of the paper. He passes it back without comment.
It's not that he's uncomfortable right now. He just hasn't spoken for so long that, for a moment, he forgot he could. It would be strange to shatter the silence he had created. It would feel off to open his mouth now that his lips have been shut for so long. It just wouldn't feel right to respond in such a way.
John pouted slightly, looking down at Alex. "Yo, that was the best I could come up with so quickly. Not everyone is as silver tongued as you."
Now that made Alexander snort.
"H-hey, look who's full of themselves!" Laurens laughed, leaning down to gently knock at Alex's jaw with his fist. "Now, come on, tell me if this draft is okay."
Alex read through the paper. There were a few issues with it, but overall it was a fine response to what this racist farmer wrote. Alex handed back the draft, nodding and smiling pleasantly.
John hesitated then. "...Alex?"
A icy jolt ran down Alexander's spine and he realized what was wrong. Fuck. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and then turned to look at John. He tried to smile, but he knew it was clearly pained.
"Why aren't you talking…?" He asked it like it was the most confusing thing in existence. Alex pressed his hands against his mouth, thinking maybe the pressure will loosen his lips. When he knew he still wouldn't be able to do anything, his gaze flicked up to Laurens, practically begging him not to continue this conversation. But his friend was deep in thought, not even looking at him anymore. His gaze flicked back and forth as he focused. "Is it… like what Herc told us?"
Alex sat up, blinking rapidly. He lowered his hands and his eyebrows at the same time.
John rubbed the back of his neck, "Well, back at the battle in Brooklyn, way back then, Herc told Gil and I that when y'all were on the battlefield, you kinda…"
Instead of finishing the sentence, he just gestured to Alexander.
Alex honestly doesn't know why he's surprised. Of course, of course Herc would tell them. Why wouldn't he? 'Hey, you know that scrawny new guy, he totally choked!' Alex ran his fingers through his hair, feeling his cheeks heat up in anger and embarrassment.
"I mean, like, there's nothing wrong with it?" John didn't sound so sure, but he carried on nonetheless, "I knew someone when I was little who couldn't hear, so they never talked. It's like that, right?"
'No. Not at all.' Alexander just gave John a helpless look. It must've been something truly vulnerable, because it made John look away, biting his lip. Alexander felt his stomach sinking lower and lower, like it was being filled with heavy stones. He looked down at his hands, opening his mouth to try to force the words out. Nothing came.
"So... I guess it's a good thing we have a lot of ink and paper." John said after a moment. "Write down what you want to say, Al. I don't mind."
His head snapped up so fast he thought he heard something in his neck crack. John was smiling, a soft blush on his cheeks.
"Truly, Alexander. I adore your voice, but it's not a necessity." The blush grew darker at the words, but John met his eyes anyway.
Alex couldn't stop the wide grin that spread across his face. He jumped out of his chair, enveloping John in a tight hug. The other man laughed, allowing himself to be clung to. The two got distracted very quickly after that. Laurens chatting and Alexander writing on his arm in response.
"Alex, that tickles!"
Alexander just grinned devilishly.
Lafayette might not have ever discovered it for himself. Hamilton never truly had an issue talking around the other man. If something couldn't be said in English, he'd just switch to French. But Hamilton thinks that it was merely luck and good timing that made it so that Lafayette never saw what everyone else did. He'd show up right after Hamilton got his voice back; or leave right before he lost it.
And then he left for France.
And then there was the war thing still going on.
And then they won.
And then he went back to France.
So, yeah….
But Lafayette never questioned what he clearly heard from Herc or John. He never brought it up. And for that, Alex was grateful.
Alex groaned loudly, pushing a pile of papers away from him. He was itching to get out there and run. He wanted to fight; to bleed, for the country that took him in. He knew he was more than qualified to run a battalion of his own. He glanced over at Washington, who was reading through a letter from Congress.
Hamilton slid over next to him and sighed dramatically. Washington didn't even glance at him. Huffing in annoyance, Alexander tugged on his sleeve childishly. George eventually sighed and set down the letter.
"Yes, Alexander?" George said, turning slowly to look at him.
"Sir, I promise you, if you give me just, like, thirty men, not even a lot, just let me take command and lead them into a fight. I can do it, you know I can." Alex practically pleaded.
George rolled his eyes, having this conversation with him multiple times, "No, just, stay aide-de-camp."
"Sir, why won't you let me be in charge?" Alexander snapped. Because, truly this was getting far past frustrating.
"You're in charge of my information." Washington told him simply, turning away.
"Sir!" Alex hissed, "You know that's not what I mean!"
Washington let out a long, low breath. When he spoke next, his words were chosen very carefully, his voice was forcibly calm. "Because, Alexander. I know that in certain cases, you have been known to … talk less. And when men are expecting commanding orders from you, in the heat of battle, there cannot be a moment where words escape you. Do you understand, son?"
The pain that burned through Hamilton's throat exploded throughout the rest of his body. He felt himself shaking with emotion, but he refused to show it on his face. Mutely, he nodded.
And he never asked his commander for a troop to lead again.
After Lauren's unexpected death, Alexander fell into an intense, spiraling void of work. He would write for hours, for days, on end without ever stopping. He was left alone to his thoughts. Eliza couldn't coax him away from his pen and paper. He wouldn't stop writing, the words flowing from his pen like they were meant to be there. He wrote like he was physically unable to stop. He sat in silence. Alone. Writing.
He wrote everything he couldn't say.
Alexander was left in the corner of a large office room; writing furiously. Everyone else had gathered near the center of the room, chatting and getting to know their new coworkers. Because, see, this wasn't any ordinary office. This was the meeting place for the hand-selected cabinet of none other than President George Washington.
The man in question brushed a warm hand across Alex's back, "You should take a break and go introduce yourself to everyone. They've surely heard great things about you."
Normally, Hamilton would. But at the moment, there was a large, thick bubble in the back of his mouth. He tried swallowing it, popping it, smothering it, and ignoring it, but he just couldn't. So he drowned himself in work while everyone else was exchanging pleasantries.
Alex smiled but shook his head. Washington raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a young man ran up to them.
"Sir, Mister Jefferson has arrived." He told them.
Washington none-too-gently pulled Hamilton out of his chair and dragged him to the front of the room. He let go and Alexander straightened his shirt just as the doors opened. The man strolled in with the confidence of a king. His wild hair must have been as big as his ego. James Madison was by his side and the two were chatting happily.
Washington held out a hand and shook the man's kindly. "Mister Jefferson, welcome home. I know you've been off in France for some time."
"Oh, yeah." Jefferson drawled, "It's good to be back on this side of the ocean. I've heard I got some work to do."
Madison scoffed at the simplicity of the statement. Washington smiled warily. "It'll certainly be a handful. Speaking of which, this is Alexander Hamilton."
Alex wanted to squawk in protest at the small barb, but instead he quietly held out his hand to shake. He could feel a blush on his cheeks as he pouted at the ground. Thomas looked him over for a second before snorting and shaking Alex's hand once. Why was his hand so big? No one had the right to be that tall, dammit.
"I'm sure it'll be of the utmost pleasure working with you." He said sarcastically.
And isn't it strange that that was what made Alexander find his voice? He scoffed, "I'll be surprised if you can keep up with me."
A challenging grin spread across both men's faces. Washington had an intense feeling of foreboding creep over him.
And then, the day there was a knock on the door. It echoed around the empty house. Hamilton's pen stopped for the first time in hours. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his joints popping and his muscles protesting with each step.
There was a pretty maiden at the door. She showed him her bruises and asked for help. Alex blinked at her and felt himself nod, stepping outside to walk her home.
He didn't know what'd he'd say even if he could. But when Maria Reynolds pulls him into her bed with him, he doesn't exactly object. He wasn't sure the words would ever make it past his lips.
Blushing darkly, he stared down at her. They started slowly at first, she gave him every opportunity to leave, although she certainly wasn't making leaving seem like a very tempting choice.
It's because of Maria Reynolds that Alexander speaks for the first time in days. And although the sounds he makes are not even close to words - desperate, needy moans, more like - it's still quite a feat.
That isn't the reason why he keeps coming back to her. But a certain part of his mind noticed that their encounters happen more often when words escape him.
They were in the middle of a debate. Thomas had just given a lengthy speech about the rights of the common man and how that's just as important as the rights of the state. As he was wrapping up his points he glanced to Alexander and said;
"There's no need to listen to this scrawny immigrant. He's nothing more than a bastard brat of a Scotch pedler."
Thomas sneered. He grinned to himself as he saw Alexander's eyes widen. But Hamilton's face didn't turn red with anger. No, on the contrary, his cheeks lost all shades of color. The man stood before him, pale, unmoving. For a second Thomas thought he died.
"Secretary Hamilton? Your response?" Washington prompted after a few moments of silence. A shiver visibly ran through Alexander. He blinked hard and looked to their president, his eyes wide with emotion. Washington stood up from his chair, reaching forward, "Alexander?"
Hamilton shook his head, his throat closing up on him. The words wouldn't, couldn't, form. Angry tears formed in his eyes as he scrambled backwards and sprinted towards the door. Washington and Jefferson were calling after him; but he couldn't stop running. The words suffocated his lungs, making it hard to escape his problems.
Thomas found on his desk the next morning a twelve page rebuttal from the man that looked as if his world was falling apart the day before. He rolled his eyes at the blatant expansive wall of text. He never would use so many words to get his point across.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was curiosity. But Jefferson sat down in his chair and read all twelve pages. Angrily, he had to admit, Hamilton had a point. If he had only said that in front of the cabinet…
"WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!" Hamilton yelled, throwing the pile of papers off his desk. His family was watching from the doorway. Eliza shooed the kids away when Alexander's knees started shaking. He slid to the floor as Eliza closed and locked the door to his study. A few seconds later, she was sitting next to him, an arm around his shoulder. "Why can't I talk, Eliza?"
"I don't know…" Eliza sighed, "But it's truly not a problem."
"It's a fucking problem when Jefferson embarrasses me in front of everyone!" Alexander grumbled, "It was a problem when Washington wouldn't let me lead an army! It's always a problem, Eliza! I never know when I'm going to be able to talk next! It's a curse!"
Eliza hummed with sympathy, "There are always moments when the words escape you. No one will blame you for that."
"I will." Alexander said gravely. "If I had the opportunity to speak, and I didn't…."
"Alexander-" Eliza started, but Alex cut her off.
"Get out." Eliza looked taken aback by the sharp tone. Alex was staring down at his shoes. "Please, get out. I have to write."
Eliza sighed, "Words don't fail you then."
"They never do." Alex agreed dryly.
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